


Gun Oil, Not Just For Guns

by otenma



Series: Not Just For X [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Improper Use of Gun Oil, Masturbation, Other, implied (future) Wincest, twink!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otenma/pseuds/otenma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See Dean clean guns. See Dean get hard-on. See Dean use creative lubrication. Go, Dean, go!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gun Oil, Not Just For Guns

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: twink!dean masturbating

Castiel has been watching over Dean for a very long time, and he's seen many things, but his favorite moment has always been the summer of 2001, a Thursday.

Sam hadn't left for college yet, and Dean was so much happier then, so much easier with himself. His body was boyish, still in the process of filling out, lips sinfully delicate for such a jawline. He was cleaning guns on a chipped Formica table in the hotel room he was sharing with his father and brother. Sam said something about vending machines and soda and left the room, Dean called him a bitch and told him to fetch him one as well.

At first, Dean just continued to clean his gun, applying oil to the rod, then the rag, and twirling it down the barrel. Then his mouth tightened and he shifted, accomodating, and twisted the rod again.

Castiel noticed at this point the growing bulge straining against a young Dean Winchester's secondhand jeans.

Dean set the gun and rod on the table with a harsh thunk and leaned back, peering through the window. Sam had gotten trapped into small talk with some old guy from a neighboring room.

Dean twitched the curtain shut, leaving a thin line so he could watch--Castiel knew Dean told himself he was making sure Sam couldn't walk in and surprise him, but he also knew that Dean was not telling the whole truth--and unbuttoned his jeans, unzipped his fly with a soft groan.

Dean bit his lip and reached inside of his underwear, pulling out his nearly-hard cock. The tip was shiny and pink, half-exposed over the foreskin, and Dean blushed when he looked at it, freckles standing out. He took his thumb and index finger and pulled back his foreskin the rest of the way with a hiss, circling the head of his cock. It twitched towards his stomach. Dean swallowed and nudged his jeans and underwear further down his slim hips, completely exposing himself. He rubbed his hands over his belly and lower, uncharacteristically patient, or perhaps entranced.

He picked up the gun oil, poured a liberal amount into his palm and turned his hand into a tunnel, starting up a rhythm. He bucked his cock up into his hand, gun oil running sloppy into his pubic hair, between his thighs. Dean bit his lip to keep his moan in his throat but a small, hitching, needy sound escaped.

Dean's flush deepened, his stomach tightened. His free hand, seemingly on it's own, smoothed itself down his ribs, his belly, cupping his balls and swirling through the gun oil. Dean's slender legs spread, as much as the jeans allowed, and reached under his balls, and Castiel couldn't see what his fingers were doing but the way Dean tensed and how his mouth went slack with want told him that those fingers had found their way to that ring of muscle. They weren't inside--Dean wouldn't have the courage for that for a while yet--but they were there, questing, learning.

Dean's fist pumped furiously, head tipped back against the chair, that long line of throat blurting out tiny staccato moans. He swiped a tongue across his bottom lip and rolled his head towards the window. Towards Sam.

Except that his brother wasn't there.

"S-Sammy?" Dean panted, torn between sitting up straighter and finishing himself off. He pumped himself faster, lost to his pleasure.

The motel door opened. "They were out of root beer so--"

Dean came with a strangled cry, jerking his hand free of his pants and desperately trying to tuck himself in before he'd finished--come spattered everywhere, his jeans, his stomach, even one of the guns on the table bore a white glob. "The hell, man, don't you knock?" Dean shouted, face burning. He pushed his hair out of his face and cursed after he remembered the gun oil still coating his hand.

"Uh, sorry," Sam said. Sam looked over his brother's shoulder as Dean zipped up. "Is that...gun oil?"

"Shut up, bitch."

"Jerk," the reply was automatic. But Sam made a moue of curiosity and picked up the bottle, turning it towards Dean. "Does it work?"

"You wanna find out?"

Castiel smiles, unseen by the two boys, and pops out of the timeline with an almost-inaudible flapping of wings.


End file.
